


of knitwear and jubilance

by doctormissy



Series: all aboard the ineffable plan [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Bakes, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Banter, Christmas, Crowley is Whipped (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Dramatic Crowley (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Footnotes, Humor, Implied/Referenced Sex, Love, M/M, Presents, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Ugly Holiday Sweaters, aziraphale is whipped too, crowley hates winter, how is that not a tag? outrageous, rated m for horny demon, references to Lucifer (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21977974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormissy/pseuds/doctormissy
Summary: ‘Angel,’ he said dryly.When he turned around, Aziraphale gave him a curious, innocent ‘Hmm?’‘What in the name of Satan’s bollocks and everything unholy are youwearing?’Or, in other words, ugly holiday jumpers are (very much reluctantly, a certain demon would tell you) worn, gifts are exchanged, and a truce between Heaven and Hell is only a hair’s breadth away.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: all aboard the ineffable plan [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1492577
Comments: 7
Kudos: 78
Collections: 9 Days Christmas Writing Challenge





	of knitwear and jubilance

**Author's Note:**

> *️⃣ set after "all aboard the ineffable plan"
> 
> 2️⃣ part two of a three-part storyline
> 
> ✅ can be read as stand-alone 
> 
> ⬅️ [part one](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21958024/chapters/52399501)
> 
> this is a bit late for a Christmas story, two days after Christmas, but that's how the schedule turned out. happy holidays even so, and enjoy! ♡

Crowley woke up in a pitifully angel-free bed. 

He groaned and blinked the last remains of sleep out of his eyes. His hand blindly searched for the mobile lying somewhere on the nightstand, and when it finally grasped and unlocked the device, he found that it was already past 11 a.m. Also, there were more message notifications than he’d care to read this early in the morning.

For a second, he wondered why in Heavens that was so, but then the smell of Räucherkerzen hit his sensitive nose and his mind caught up with him.

Right. It was Christmas Day.

Crowley subconsciously grinned and threw the down duvet aside. Christmas was a great time to be a demon, retired or not. So much mischief to cause! So many blessings to counter! And oh, he did love how commercialised the holidays have become over the last few decades. He couldn’t say he’d taken credit for it, no, but it had definitely been Hell’s work. And humans loved it.

Especially the four children they’d be visiting[1] in Tadfield later.

He picked up his burgundy dressing gown from where it lay in a sad pile on the floor and put it on to cover his naked body. He ran a hand through his hair and styled the mess while doing so. He wouldn’t give Aziraphale the pleasure of mocking his bed head.

It was _his_ fault, anyway. The things he did[2] last night…

Crowley found the angel in question standing by the kitchen counter, fully dressed in slacks and a baby blue jumper. His sleeves were rolled up. Crowley leant against the doorjamb and crossed his arms, enjoying the view. Not so much the bleary weather outside.

‘I see you’ve decided to grace us with your demonic presence,’ Aziraphale said, a dash of sarcasm colouring his voice. He didn’t turn to look at him at all. ‘Good morning, dear.’

‘Morning.’ Crowley peeled away from the jamb and sauntered over to his angel. He wrapped his arms around his middle and laid his chin on his shoulder. Aziraphale relaxed into him but kept on arranging biscuits on a tray in a pattern only he could see.

‘Sleep well?’ Aziraphale continued to tease.

‘It’s not _my_ fault. It’s the winter. You _know_ how I get in winter[3]. Snakes, they hibernate, angel.’

Aziraphale sighed through the nose. His fingers were coated in pieces of ground walnuts. ‘I know you’d rather sleep through the season, but really, that doesn’t become you. And there are things to be done.’

Crowley let out a noncommittal grunt. He _did_ look forward to dinner. He’s been planning on making sure the jokes in the crackers would be especially dirty and/or cringey, the mulled wine and cider especially alcoholic, the songs on the radio particularly annoying, and the WiFi coverage in Tadfield particularly poor so people would be forced to make actual _conversation_.

He sneaked a hand under Aziraphale’s jumper, rolling it up slightly. ‘We don’t have to be in Tadfield before two though. Let’s go back to bed, just for a while,’ he whispered against the skin of Aziraphale’s neck. He pressed a kiss there.

Aziraphale’s hands stilled. He rid himself of the crumbs, wiggled out of Crowley’s grasp, and turned to face him, one warm hand on the demon’s cheek. He planted a kiss against his somewhat dry lips. ‘I’m afraid I still have to get a batch of strudels into the oven; they are best served warm, after all. And oh, presents!’

_Unwrap me_ , Crowley thought. _Look, it’s easy. Untie the knot, peel the robe off. I’m not wearing anything underneath._

Aziraphale squeezed his arse and proceeded to finish the biscuit mandala. Insufferable.

Only then did Crowley’s brain fully register the front side of the jumper. Oh no. He was one of _those_ people now. There were little angels on it, kitschy and protruding, with little trumpets and halos and wings. And they were flying above a snowy field and snow-covered trees.

That sure as Heaven stifled any last thoughts about being bent over the counter and making Aziraphale forget all the bloody biscuits in the world.

‘Angel,’ he said dryly.

When he turned around, Aziraphale gave him a curious, innocent ‘Hmm?’

‘What in the name of Satan’s bollocks and everything unholy are you _wearing_?’

‘Oh, this!’ He grinned and grabbed the hem of the hideous jumper, stretching it out in all of its ugliness. Crowley stepped back. ‘It’s a gift from our lovely friend Miss Lopez, all the way from LA[4]! She gave me one for you too, red with little demons! Nifty, don’t you think, my dear?’

‘Nif—no. No, no, no, just, no.’ In a true Crowley-esque manner, he continued with a string of random syllables and swung on his legs in a Dramatic Gesture. ‘I’m not wearing _any_ such thing. It’s an insult to the fashion industry. I’d know; ugly holiday jumpers were one of ours.’ 

Aziraphale pouted. Actually _pouted_. It was one of those irresistible angelic faces; the Crowley-I-will-be-very-sad-if-you-don’t-do-this-for-me faces. Making a play famous or miracling a stain away was one thing though. This—this was too much.

‘I’m supposed to send her a picture, Crowley, you know we can’t refuse her,’ he said, evilly confident, and fluttered his eyelashes.

Crowley grimaced and scratched his Snake Tattoo. He weighed his options. There currently weren’t any good ones. _Fuck_.

‘I’m _not_ wearing it at dinner though,’ he said with a sigh. He snapped his fingers, and suddenly the fabric enveloping his skin went from smooth and airy to tight and scratchy. The miracle put his regular jeans on, but on his chest was a bloody _Christmas jumper_. ‘Satisfied?’

The things we do for love.

Aziraphale beamed. ‘You look dashing, my dear,’ he said, but he couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips, the little shit. Rub the hideousness of the garment in Crowley’s face, will you?

And then he reached into his pocket, took his decade-old BlackBerry, and aimed the camera at him. And—Crowley flashed the fakest grin demonly possible and a thumbs-up to boot. As soon as Aziraphale took the first picture[5], he quickly lifted two different fingers entirely.

Aziraphale clicked his tongue. ‘Must you?’

‘Yup,’ he said, popping the p. He stuffed those hands into his pockets. ‘But speaking of Ella[6], do you have any news on the Heaven and Hell front?’

‘Why don’t we sit down?’ Aziraphale said, wrinkles rising between his eyebrows just a little. He typed on his push-button mobile for a while before sliding it back into his pocket. Having nothing to hold onto, he wrung his hands. ‘Do you want some tea? Or coffee?’

Given that Aziraphale couldn’t operate the coffee machine to save his corporation, Crowley answered with a, ‘Tea will do, ta.’ He took a chair and plopped into it, slouching. As he waited for the angel to get the mugs out and put the kettle on, he tied his hair into a bun just to give his hands _something_ to do.

Aziraphale brought over the tray of biscuits and laid it in the middle of the table. Crowley was tapping his fingers against it now. ‘Have you checked your messages?’ he asked.

‘Nah, today it’s all Christmas wishes. Was there anything important?’

He guessed there was, what with Aziraphale asking him about it. And _important_ , in this case, meaning _related to the ongoing process of negotiating a truce between the sides_ [7]. That’s what all this was about, really. The hot topic of the month.

‘As a matter of fact, yes. Lucifer said that yesterday, Hell had agreed on the terms and sent the paperwork Up for final revision,’ Aziraphale reported. ‘And Amenadiel said he was hopeful. The negotiations will take place on New Year’s Day. On neutral ground. And they said—well, they said we should be there.’

Crowley raised an eyebrow. ‘Us?’ he asked. ‘Really? I thought they hated us.’

‘It does concern us somewhat, does it not?’

The kettle made itself known with its loud whistle and interrupted the silence hanging in the air.

‘Well. It wouldn’t be possible without us, that’s for sure.’ Crowley chuckled. ‘Also for Someone’s sake turn that _blasted_ thing off.’

Aziraphale scurried to the cooker and turned it off. The sound slowly dissipated. He poured hot water over teabags—lazy tea, then—and added the milk and sugar. He grasped the handles and brought the mugs over, saying, ‘Let’s not talk about this right now; it’s Christmas. We oughtn’t worry about grave matters.’

Yet.

Crowley took his mug and a piece of heart-shaped jam shortbread, which was only one of a multitude of biscuit varieties based on recipes from what must have been all of Europe and adjacent Asian countries. Aziraphale sipped at his tea, and the ridiculous jumper was right in Crowley’s face. He resisted the urge to sneer at it, _again_. He said, ‘You said something about opening presents?’

Well, he got Aziraphale one[8], and he couldn’t wait to see his face when he unwrapped it.

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up, and his nose scrunched up rather adorably even at the _mention_. He leant forward on his elbows. ‘Ah, yes. I believe they are under our tree!’

‘Yeah. We both put them there yesterday.’ Crowley rolled his eyes and got up, a crooked half-smile on his lips. And if he were being honest, he had to admit the jumper was… well, it was warm and cosy. But the demons flying over a snowy landscape, that was a simply unnecessary kind of evil. And the bright colour, _honestly_.

(Hell would love it.)

The tea, which would obediently remain warm for as long as needed, was left on the table, but three more biscuits disappeared from the mandala when Aziraphale followed him. He has made them all himself; his baking endeavours have proved incredibly successful in the past half-year, too. He was already famous for his sweets all over the village, and all the neighbours demanded samples[9].

Under the fir, which reached almost all the way to the ceiling, decorated the human way a week prior in all manners of ornaments that, frankly, clashed horribly[10], sat two wrapped, vaguely box-shaped items, one about twice as large as the other.

Crowley came to a halt and rubbed the back of his neck. He shouldn’t be nervous about this; they’ve done it hundreds of times already. But he was, all of a sudden. This time, it was different. New. Better. Sure, there had been no threat of their superiors finding them last year either, but this was the first Christmas officially spent _together_ together.

Living under the same roof, 365 days of the year[11].

‘Want to go first, then, angel?’ he asked. He folded his wiry limbs on the carpet, closer to the burning fireplace.

Aziraphale said, ‘Yes. Jolly good then.’ He tentatively reached for the bigger present, wrapped in matte black paper with golden stars that were nothing like the actual night sky Crowley had helped create once, but the sentiment was there. Also, did you really think he’d wrap his gift in paper other than _black_?

‘This is quite heavy,’ he noted, turning it around as if it weighed precisely nothing[12]. He carefully unstuck the first piece of tape, purposefully agitating Crowley, whose philosophy was that wrapping paper was meant to be _torn and destroyed_. ‘I wonder what it is, hmm?’

Crowley’s eyes were glued to every move of those plump, perfectly manicured, deft fingers. He watched his pupils dilate with excitement when he finally put the paper aside and caught sight of the books inside, his hand caress the cover of the ancient codex.

There were three in total. Wrapped together, they counted as one gift. Shut up.

Aziraphale’s eyes met Crowley’s. ‘Crowley, these are—fourth-century books! How did you—?’

‘They’re from Lucifer’s library. When you saw it the last time—well, he did say you could take them all for all he cared[13]. So I took some. For your collection.’ He swallowed his heartbeat and cracked a thin-lipped smile. ‘Merry Christmas, Aziraphale.’

‘Oh, _Crowley_ ,’ the angel said, with enough adoration to drown a demon. He was transfixed. Radiating love all over. Crowley would swear his lower lip _wobbled_. ‘I do love you so. This is simply _incredible_. But—are you certain you won’t be in trouble for it?’

‘Nah, don’t worry about it. He won’t miss them,’ he waved him off, and the _I love you too_ as well. He’d show him. Not tell him. Couldn’t. He picked up his parcel. ‘So what did you get me, eh?’

It was soft to the touch, sort of squishy when he squeezed it. A joke about socks and soft presents presented itself. But he let it slide just this time. His nails into the white paper with cartoonish brown reindeer with red noses and ripped it apart, annoying Aziraphale with his habits in turn. He got to the contents far more quickly.

The contents being a black cashmere scarf, sporting threads of shimmery emerald and indigo interwoven with the dark yarn here and there.

(Like the first pair of his wings, first out of two, unused and unseen.)

He freed it from the confines of the wrapping paper and stretched it out, nearly two metres long. The fabric was wonderfully warm; perfect to wrap around himself in the awfully windy weather that troubled England in winter, and the coastal areas especially. ‘Thanks, angel. It’s a great scarf.’

He wasn’t dissatisfied because he gave the angel three rare tomes and got a scarf in return, even if it was a great and useful scarf indeed. At all. Nope.

‘You see, darling, I…’ Aziraphale sank onto his knees opposite him and laid his palms atop his thighs. Crowley noticed the books safely tucked aside on the carpet, back under the tree.

‘Yeah?’ he prodded.

‘If you must know, I made it myself, from the finest Italian cashmere yarn. Every time you went into the city, I sat down by the fireplace and…’ He gestured at the scarf in Crowley’s hold. ‘There it is. I miracled it to keep you warm at all times.’

Oh. _Oh_.

‘Oh,’ Crowley said, very eloquently. He didn’t even know Aziraphale could knit, let alone—no, he had to say it. He feared his face was all twisted in a ridiculous grimace, but he couldn’t help it. ‘You can _knit_?’

‘Yes, Crowley, I can knit[14].’ He bit back a grin and took Crowley’s hand in his own, squeezing gently.

‘I—’ Crowley swallowed a giant lump in his throat. Again. He had deeply underestimated this gift. It was wonderful. And he shouldn’t have been jealous in the first place, but, _demon_. ‘You really _made_ this? For _me_? _Thank you_ , Aziraphale.’

He surged forward and pressed his lips against his to emphasise his point. He was never that good with words. He closed his eyes and clenched one hand around the scarf; the other cupped Aziraphale’s cheek. He felt his own cheeks heating up. It was all dearly embarrassing.

It didn’t take long for feelings and all that heat to transfer into the kiss and deepen it, make Crowley drop that present— _miracled to keep him warm!_ Make that hand sneak under that blasted blue jumper, _again_. He nipped at Aziraphale’s lower lip and his neck, leaving tiny bites along his jawline.

He was looking forward to dinner, but they still had hours to go.

Crowley cocked his eyebrow mischievously when his brain finally convinced him to part from the angel, and found this moment an excuse as good as any to blast the hideous red piece of clothing into kingdom come—or at least pull it off and throw it suspiciously close to the crackling fireplace.

‘Crowley, what about the apple strudels!’ Aziraphale said with faux distress when Crowley laid a hand against his chest and gently pushed him onto the soft carpet, mindful of the books, of course. ‘We only have an hour before we have to leave, my dear, the traffic today is too—’

He joined their lips together again. His long fingers undid the button on Aziraphale’s trousers, and the zipper too. He’d leave him breathless, puffed up, panting. He _really_ didn’t want to go anywhere yet.

‘Are you forgetting I can pause time, angel?’ he said some five minutes later, hovering a bare inch away from the angel’s soft, pink, wet lips. He’s lost his jumper too, somewhere along the way, and even forgot to insist on folding it.

‘Well, if you put it like that…’ Aziraphale ran a finger along the line of Crowley’s chest. His smile was so soft and yet so self-indulgent, it made Crowley’s heart leap and his chosen Effort twitch. ‘Come here, you old serpent.’

He did.

(Well, he _did_ usually need to ask twice before the angel decided to stop fussing and complied with Crowley’s latest idea, be it the Arrangement, stopping the Apocalypse, a lunch invitation, or a shag in the middle of the living room in their cottage, at Christmas, a year after the aforementioned Apocalypse had been successfully stopped. That was the game.

Crowley, on the other hand, didn’t need to be told twice about wearing his new, 100% angel-made accessory to dinner at Anathema and Newt’s.)

* * *

1 Seeing young Anathema, her husband, and the Them was mostly Aziraphale’s idea, but Crowley promptly latched on to the thought and made it seem like it was _his_ in the first place. Aziraphale rolled his eyes at his beloved demon and let him have it.[✿]

2 Crowley could perhaps do things with his tongue, but Aziraphale could do things with his _hands_.[✿]

3 Cranky. Always cold. Tired. Wanting to tuck under a blanket and sleep for four months, or at least to move somewhere warmer: Greece, Egypt, Australia, _anywhere_.[✿]

4 It came in the mail in the afternoon of the 23rd. The Royal Mail never failed to deliver quickly and right on time; not even in remote locations such as their seaside cottage. It may have had something to do with a small angelic miracle sometimes in 1579.[✿]

5 Crowley knew, because Aziraphale had the sound on at all times, and the mobile made the classic camera _fwap_ sound when it took a photo. He highly suspected that it was on purpose.[✿]

6 Ella Lopez was a CSI at one of LAPD’s precincts, namely the one where Lucifer himself worked to solve murders and punish sinners while they were still alive. With his fiancée, Detective Decker. Because Lucifer liked humans, and had been more than happy when Earth didn’t end. He gave Crowley, who was very much surprised too, an off-the-record commendation for it, even.[✿]

7 It has been in the works since October. More than a year after the Apocalypse, things were truly beginning to settle, and both armies were getting used to the idea of no war, of God having planned it that way all along. Crowley liked to tell himself that it was because of something he’d told Beelzebub when they were drunk once, about nuns and coincidences and not knowing _anything_ for sure anymore. But really, it had been Michael who proposed the idea of an official armistice.

For the time being, anyway. But Crowley, Aziraphale, and every Earth-bound celestial hoped that that would take a couple hundred centuries at _least_.[✿]

8 With the astounding number of Christmases the immortal beings have spent together, it was only a matter of time for a rule about one present per year to establish itself. Humans, they had so little time and so many things they wanted. But after six thousand years, there was hardly anything the angel and demon didn’t already own.[✿]

9 In exchange for their own, of course. It would not do not to switch recipes and gossip between all the housewives and househusbands of Climping and the adjacent hamlet of Atherington—who really came to like Aziraphale, after the initial sort of hostility towards new people, and Crowley in particular, dissipated. He was already involved in the forthcoming bake sale and other communal events of the sort.[✿]

10 First, take a golden star on top. Add fairy lights. Add plastic tinsel in red and silver. Then take some hand-crafted blown-glass baubles of nineteenth-century German and Bohemian production, a few carved wooden bits, some fancy pinecones with glitter, 1950s angel figures, about a dozen owls, and plastic monstrosities from Tesco. Top it with tartan bows. It’s pretty straightforward as to who added what…[✿]

11 Well, 300-ish, maybe. They both went away sometimes, Aziraphale after rare books and blessings and Crowley after plants and mischief and day-long rides in the Bentley. Just as they needed to be _together_ , they also needed to be _apart_ sometimes. It’s different when you’re an immortal being unbound by the laws of physics and Time itself.[✿]

12 Angels were actually very, very strong. Aziraphale could lift _Crowley_ as if he weighed nothing. And the Christmas tree. And large stacks of books.

This, of course, applied to Crowley as well; take the time at Tadfield Manor, the wall-slam. They _did_ come from the same original stock.[✿]

13 When Anathema and Newt got married in Malibu this July, Crowley and Aziraphale stayed the night at Lucifer’s penthouse, on the sofa. Crowley, although pardoned and even being the object of Lucifer’s flirting sometimes, still felt uneasy about that, but Aziraphale was _enthralled_ by his book collection and quickly forgot just whose books they were. He started reading them. And then, when he didn’t want to leave because he was caught up in an Ancient Arabic text, Lucifer told him he could keep it. He didn’t read any of those books anyway—and had things like signed Shakespeare.[✿]

14 He has learnt to knit in the 17th century, promptly forgot due to lack of practice, and then picked the habit up again two centuries later when Crowley was asleep and he was terribly bored. He could only make simple objects such as scarves or blankets, but that didn’t dissuade him whatsoever. It was a very relaxing hobby.[✿]

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos sustain me ♡
> 
> next up: [new year's eve celebrations and a meeting between heaven and hell that could just change everything](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22106599).


End file.
